The morning sun slanted through the windows, spilling golden light into the small hall where Prasadaraju sat with his tea. He was used to his son barging in asking for cricket bats, video games, or the latest flavor of biscuits. But today, Dilli entered with an oddly serious face, clutching his old school notebook like it was some sacred scripture.
"Nanna…" Dilli began softly.
Prasadaraju looked up, suspicious. "Ha pedhoda, em kavali? (What do you want, elder one?) Don't tell me another cricket bat broke?"
Dilli straightened his back. "No, nanna. I don't want bats or biscuits. I want… a bank account."
Prasadaraju blinked, tea halfway to his lips. "Bank account?" He laughed, thinking it was some childish phrase picked up in school. "Em pedhoda, chocolate factory open cheyyala? (You want to open a chocolate factory?)"
"I'm serious, nanna," Dilli said firmly. "I also need a PAN card. And a demat account."
Now the tea almost spilled. Prasadaraju froze, staring at his son as if an alien had just replaced him overnight. "PAN… demat… STOCKS?!"
"Yes," Dilli nodded, eyes steady. "I want to invest."
For a long moment, silence filled the room. In his father's mind, images clashed: this was the same boy who used to drag him into town just to buy cakes and distribute chocolates in school; the same boy who cried for video game CDs and begged for fancy cricket gloves. And now, suddenly, he was talking like a miniature businessman?
Prasadaraju muttered to himself, half in shock, half in awe. "This fellow… till yesterday he wanted Dairy Milk… today he wants demat account. Enti ra idi? (What is this, boy?) Is he really my son?"
Dilli tried to look dignified, though his small body and oversized seriousness made him look more comical. "Nanna, chocolates are waste. If I invest today, I can distribute factories of chocolates tomorrow."
Prasadaraju's lips twitched despite himself. He tried to hide it, but a small smile escaped the mask of his usually harsh face. Something inside him stirred—pride, disbelief, and a strange joy.
"Alright, pedhoda," he said finally, standing up. "Let's see if you're serious."
That very day, he took Dilli on his cycle to the State Bank of India branch at Atreyapuram. The manager, an old friend, welcomed them warmly. Prasadaraju leaned across the counter, his voice carrying that mix of authority and affection. "Minor account create cheyyandi. Zero balance savings. This fellow is suddenly talking about investments."
Within hours, Dilli held a fresh passbook in his hands, his eyes shining. The real shock came when his father deposited ₹5,000 as an initial gift. "For your new chapter, pedhoda," he said gruffly, avoiding his son's gaze. He even began the paperwork for PAN and demat accounts, handling it personally.
Dilli's throat tightened. For all his father's harshness, his beatings, his strict rules, here he was—quietly laying bricks for his son's dream. Overcome, the boy suddenly hugged him tightly. "I love you, nanna."
Prasadaraju stiffened. The words pierced his armor. No one had said that to him in years, least of all his stubborn son. His whole life he had hidden his love behind discipline, fearing pampering would spoil his children. He had become the villain in their eyes, though in truth his heart beat only for them.
Hearing those words now, he melted like ice under a hot sun. His eyes moistened, his stern mask cracked, and for the first time in years he bent down, kissed his son's forehead, and whispered, "I love you too, kiddo."
Dilli pulled back, pouting. "I'm not a kid, nanna."
Inside, he thought with a wry smile, I'm not a kid at all, Dad. I'm just five years younger to you. Psychologically, I'm thirty-one.
Prasadaraju chuckled, shaking his head at his son's expression. "Sare, pedhoda… kid or not, you made me proud today."
And for the first time, father and son walked home not as disciplinarian and rebel, but as two men quietly beginning to understand each other.